High Tech
by rachael sabotini
Summary: Rodney needs a green card to stay in America.


Thank you to the chelle for the beta. No money made, no harm intended. All mistakes are my own.

* * *

**High Tech**

"Fuck." Rodney kicked his foot back against the cubical wall he leaned on, feeling it vibrate. Skysocket was going under, so there was no way he was getting a green card now. He slumped into his ergonomically correct chair and pulled out his H1 documentation, tossing it on the desk. He and his tech visa were on their way back to Toronto.

Or Calgary. Or Regina, Saskatchewan. He felt a little shaky at the thought.

The whole green card process was merely a form of indentured servitude anyway. You promised to work for a company, turning in long hours at below standard wages with few benefits, and in return, they promised to sponsor you for a green card in five or six or eight years.

They might as well have chained him to the desk for all the autonomy he had. He sighed, and started digging though his desk, pulling out the things he wanted to take: ping pong paddle; squoosh ball; picture of that baby bird that kept going around saying 'are you my mother'; Styrofoam model of Skysocket's navigation system, complete with light up LEDs for the venture capitalists...

He slammed the desk door shut and rubbed his wrist over his forehead. He really didn't want to go back to Canada. Canada was great for people and plants and things, but they knew squat about making money.

And Rodney really liked money. He liked what he could buy, what he could have, what he could keep, and his plan was to take it all back with him and rub it in the faces of everyone who ever ignored him, or humiliated him, or made his life hell.

Like his parents.

Now he'd have to go back and find a job. A sense of shame bloomed deep within his stomach, and Rodney covered his abdomen with his hand. He really didn't need this, didn't want it; he couldn't go back to living with his parents again. He hated the snow and winter, and hated their cold distance even more. He would do anything right now to avoid going back. Anything.

"Dr. McKay?" The nametag read 'Simmons', the uniform said 'military', and the dark glasses said 'pretentious'.

"Can't you see I'm packing?"

The man leaned against Rodney's desk and stared down at him, something in his behavior making Rodney's insides twist, and not in a good way. "How do you like America, Dr. McKay?"

Rodney sat back in his chair, looking warily at Simmons. "Seems like a nice enough country if you don't mind inadequate healthcare and a distinct lack of social services."

"Anything you like particularly well?"

Rodney paused a moment, blinking. "Stock options."

"I have a proposal for you." Simmons threw a folder on the desk. "You get your own lab, two assistants, and we sponsor you for a green card." Simmons left his hand on the folder, so Rodney couldn't pick it up. "Skysocket was a very stupid name for a product."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "We shot satellites into the sky and let other companies plug into them. It's a sky socket. What else were we going to call it?"

"I'm sure there are marketing people paid to figure that out."

"Ah, that would be the problem. The idiots here didn't believe in paying out cash if they could trade stock options for it." Rodney had enough of the worthless stuff to completely wallpaper his bathroom, if he ever felt like it.

"If you encountered something called a Stargate, what would you think it did?"

His voice made Rodney think of rocks and ice and sharp, deadly objects, and Rodney could feel goose bumps forming along the backs of his arms, under his long-sleeved shirt. "It's an astronomy portal, isn't it? 'Your gate to the stars.'"

"This is a little more literal than that."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a far more sophisticated version of your sky socket, plugging together planets, rather than satellites." Simmons pulled his hand away from the folder. "No stock options, but we can provide for all of your basic needs."

"Aren't you worried about my security clearance?"

"We've had you under surveillance for quite a while, Dr. McKay. We know everything about you that could lead to a security leak."

"Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that whole fascist interest in other people's lives as something I really hate about America." Rodney immediately opened the file, pulling it into his lap. The first photo alone made him hard with wanting. He'd never seen anything like it, and the second picture was even worse. What kind of technology was that?

While he read and thumbed through the photos, Simmons continued to talk, and Rodney continued to ignore him. When he got to the last page, he knew he was hooked. "Can't I just sell you my soul to get access to this? It would be a lot easier on me."

Simmons took off his sunglasses, and his eyes were dead and cold. "You don't have a soul."

Rodney rubbed his palms against his pants. "What do you want from me?"

Simmons tilted his head up to look at the ceiling. "I need a smart man who doesn't mind not seeing daylight for weeks at a time, who's willing to work head's down on a task until it's completed, and who has no real ties to anyone or anything that might distract him"

"Sounds like you want a slave."

"Essentially, yes. And you need a green card." Simmons put his hand on the folder, but Rodney held on, not willing to let him take it away. "You agree to work for me, and I own you, Dr. McKay. I tell you where to work, what to work on, and how much time you have. You report to me, and if I'm not happy, you aren't happy. Understand?"

"What are my other options?"

"None."

Rodney's heart was pounding. He believed Simmons, he really did. "In that case, I guess my answer is yes."

"Good. Bring your things. You're leaving tonight. We've already cleaned out your apartment."

"So that's it, eh? You show up and whisk me off for parts unknown, and I don't get to tell anyone where I am going or what I am doing?"

"We'll make sure the people who need to know are informed." Simmons tossed Rodney's magic 8 ball into a cardboard box. "No one will ask questions about you, Dr. McKay. We're very good at that."

Rodney didn't doubt it. "Where am I going?"

"Nevada." Simmons put his glasses back on, as if the overhead light hurt his eyes. "Area 51."

"There's no snow, right? Or maybe a little in winter?" Rodney mentally shook himself. It was a desert; he shouldn't be asking about snow. "How hot is it?"

"Hot as hell," Simmons said, and smiled.


End file.
